Echoes
by song-wei
Summary: Mike and El, enjoying their hard-earned "happy ever after". A one shot. Sorry for the repost.


At 3AM Mike is a light sleeper, so when El starts to stir uneasily he comes wide awake. She murmurs a few words that he doesn't catch and her body stiffens, then twitches once, twice. Her breathing quickens and shallows, then it hitches unevenly. Mike isn't alarmed – yet – but he concentrates on how she sounds and moves. El mutters a few more words, still unintelligible, but her movements gradually quiet, and she inhales deeply, slowly. As El relaxes, Mike relaxes. He rolls over facing away from her and scoots his butt back to lightly contact her body. Still asleep, El accepts the invitation and shifts herself to spoon him from behind and throws an arm across his body. He takes her hand, kisses it, and holds it to his chest.

"OK...this is OK," Mike thinks. It has been a long time since she's had any real night terrors, but he remembers them too well to ignore even the slightest hints of distress. "Better living through chemistry", Mike thinks, and blesses sertraline and aripiprazole, the drugs that help control the monsters in her head. At this point El will use medications for the rest of her life, and they both accept that dependency. Considering El's start in life, the Upside Down piled on Hawkins Lab, it would have been amazing if she hadn't needed them, but she never liked taking more meds than necessary. A few years ago, after an extended regime of carefully reduced dosages, El and her doctor thought she could safely stop. Didn't work out at all. Mike will never forget, never allow himself to forget, the result.

Everything went fine for a while – a couple of months, even. Then El became more apprehensive about driving in the rain, or at night, or going into the city. Soon she didn't want to leave the house at all. A series of counseling sessions didn't have any effect. Resuming her old medications, even at elevated dosages, didn't provide relief, in part because they needed weeks before they reached effective levels in her body. Mike's own anxiety mounted as she started having muscle tremors. Her legs vibrated like sewing machines. For six weeks Mike coped with the mechanics of caring for El and the house, keeping track of meds, getting her to doctor sessions, but the doubts and fears ate at him too. Seeing her in such pain with no effective treatment kept him sleepless at night. Mike realized that he needed help. Their daughter Terry left her family and flew out to help.

El, Mike and Terry were in session with the most recent doctor when El's whole body vibrated like a struck gong. El started to sob, "There's a knife, a big knife pressing on my heart and it hurts. I want it to stop. I want my life back."

The doctor looked at them and said "This isn't working, Jane. You need special help."

It was hard to take that next step, but El and Mike both recognized they had reached the limits of what family and outpatient care could do. Mike looked at the doctor, "Where do we go now?" The doctor told them exactly what they needed and where to find it. They cut the session short and headed directly to the specific emergency room the doctor named.

Beds in a good institution were always in extremely short supply, but miraculously there was an immediate opening in the psych ward of University Hospital and El was admitted. With El now completely in professional care, much of the pressure lifted from Mike, and he got his first good night's sleep in several weeks. Terry stayed with Mike for another day and then, missing her own family, flew home that evening. Mike suspected that Terry had stayed an extra day to make sure he was going to be OK, but he really appreciated her company.

The psych ward had strict limits on patient/family interactions. Mike had to wait two days before he could see her, and then he could visit for only one hour, twice a day. Everything he brought her – books, clothes, whatever – had to be inventoried by the nurses and kept in locked storage. He chafed at the restrictions, but the change in her was remarkable. With the right mix of medications she became cheerful, slept through the night, was engaged with the people around her. She came home after eight days. They had dodged another bullet.

Now El lies quietly behind him. Her regular breathing tells Mike that whatever the dream was, it has gone. Mike remembers the first time he woke in the morning with El in bed beside him. He had realized then that her trust and love was the greatest gift he would ever, ever receive. That was the single best moment of his entire life. Every morning is an echo of that first dawn.

El nuzzles him in her sleep and snores softly in his ear. Does it get any better than this? Mike doesn't think so.


End file.
